Wisdom
by Nightmare Prince
Summary: This is the last tear she will ever cry with his name on it.


**Wisdom**

**-A Story Written in Fragments-**

(*)(*)(*)

_This is the last tear she will ever cry with his name on it._

_It's a whisper and a promise, a single droplet glimmering as it falls from between her dark lashes and sunders upon the cold floor. She's supposed to be wise, strong and knowledgeable but knows enough to understand that these traits are useless when it comes to love. To love is to give oneself up to the insanity of the heart, and her heart is not her mind, sharp and nimble. _

_Her heart is sluggish and erratic all at once, heeding no words but his._

_She's twenty-seven and she knows he isn't the boy she had fallen in love with. A piece of her can comprehend that she was just a tool for him to use and discard once her purpose had been served, that she was just another step upon his stairway to power. _

_Her tears fall hot and heavy, and she promises herself to never cry for him again._

(*)(*)(*)

The Battle of Hogwarts is over, the greatest conflict of her long life is finally at an end and yet she feels no sense of peace. Victorious, triumphant and relieved, yes, but she lacks the fundamental principle that's been her driving desire all these years.

It's the one thing that grates on her; that she, despite surviving that which had killed dozens – if not hundreds – less than half her age, her turbulent heart does not yet seek rest.

She walks passed the bodies of the slain, not daring to look at them. They're her students, a great many of them are, and she can't bear to see their eyes, glassy and frozen in the first stages of rigor mortis. Some of them were just students, easily mourned yet others; they were the children she had never had.

Many of them had died with children on their own but for all their age, she can still see their nervous eyes disappearing behind the tattered brim of a frayed old hat.

They're dead and cold, whilst she's cold and alive, and somehow that just doesn't seem fair. She's lived her life and experienced the joy, the pain and the heartaches, so why is she amongst the living whilst those who've barely lived are dead?

The Fates are capricious and cruel, she decides, and moves along, not daring to glance upon the corpses of the children at her feet.

(*)(*)(*)

_She's twenty-three years old and she's heard the rumours. People are disappearing, they're dying, or else they're being tortured to the brink of insanity. A part of her knows they're true, her logical mind linking together the pieces that have been in front of her eyes for years. A larger part of her, her heart, argues that they can't be true. _

_She knows he's cold and determined but she's never known him to be a monster. Still, it's been years since last they've seen each other and who knows what time has wrought upon him. _

_The owl flutters in through her window and deposits the letter upon her dinner, the gravy soaking into the envelope within minutes as she stares in ill-disguised horror. _

_She recognises the handwriting and she fears. Not for herself, but for him, and what he has become. _

_If only her love had been enough, if only it had been sufficient to dim the hate that clawed at his heart with envenomed talons, then maybe he would be the one sitting across from her today. _

_Fingers tremble as she reaches for the envelope, her breath held tightly in her chest as she delicately opens it and extricates the precious letter within._

_Three words are scripted across the parchment, followed by an elegant signature._

_She glares at his name, rage bubbling in her as she tosses the letter into the fireplace as ignites the dry wood with her wand. What he has wanted has never been her driving force in life, and she's tired of picking up his pieces. _

(*)(*)(*)

Remus, he's had a hard life but he found happiness in the end. She can still see him as a boy, shy and frightened by a world that had all but disowned him as he climbs upon the stool and allows her to set the hat upon his head. Her heart constricts as she passes him, her eyes straying for a minute to his stiffened fingers, linked with those of his late wife.

The next body is one she can't bear to look upon, let alone ponder. How often had it been that she had wished to tear her hair out in frustration because of his antics? How many detentions has he served with her, how many laughs has he elicited from her in moments when none were watching?

George kneels beside his fallen twin, and she hurries on rather than put herself through any more torture. It's too much to bear to join the grieving family – let her mourn in her own way, by assisting the living.

She can't do that yet, not yet. First she has to see him, to ensure that he truly has no hold upon the strings of her heart any longer.

The stairs dance before her stinging eyes as she slips into the antechamber, sealing the door behind her to ensure that she will not be disturbed.

(*)(*)(*)

_She's fifteen and a dancer, moving across the floor like the most graceful of goddesses, her silky black hair cascading in a flawless accentuation of his dark suit. Her eyes are bright with merriment as the songs waft through the air, the lilting melody of the band hired by Professor Slughorn for his Christmas party playing through her ears. _

_He smiles at her, a charming smile, and she melts into his arms as he leads her across the dance floor. The glares of the Slytherin purebloods are scathing as she rests her cheek upon his shoulder, their movements slowing in time with the song. They're envious of her and she can't blame them – he's spectacular and amazing. She can't help but be in awe of herself, for of all the girls in Hogwarts, he had chosen her to accompany him to the party. _

"_Are you enjoying yourself?" he murmurs into her ear. His voice is like honeyed wine, rich and sweet and addictive all at once and she shivers as his breath ghosts across her skin. _

"_Very much so," she responds, too at a loss for words to say much more. _

"_Could you do me a favour?" he asks next, and though the warning bells begin to ring in her head, she can't help but nod and agree to help him in any way she can. _

(*)(*)(*)

"You were always good at getting what you wanted," she mutters, leaning against the wall as she stares at his body, so inhuman and monstrous.

He's always had the heart of a snake, she reasons, so perhaps it is fitting that the exterior reflects the rot within.

She wants to retch because she hates that she used to love this demon, that the taint of his cold hands still stain her skin, that the taste of his lips still linger on her own, even now, over half a century since their schooldays.

"I hope you burn in the darkest of the seven hells," she says finally, turning away as the tears begin to prickle at her eyes.

(*)(*)(*)

_She's twelve and a loner, the only social aspect of her life being her prowess upon the Quidditch field. The season is over for the year though, so she's curled up in the library with a book in her hands and her eyes glued to the pages. _

_A rustle of robes catches her attention and she looks up in disdain, frowning at the boy who settles down across from her and begins delving into his worn bag._

"_There are other tables, you know," she snaps, cross that she's been disturbed. _

_He looks at her and fixes her with an endearing smile, though she imagines a flash of red crossing his eyes, and opens his books. _

"_None of the other tables have a person reading Hogwarts: A History," he smiles, "and I need some help for my class assignment."_

"_There are a dozen copies in the library?" she sneers, "Can't you go get one?"_

"_Where's the fun in researching alone?" he rolls his eyes and she frowns for a few minutes before asking:_

"_What do you need to research?" _

_She hopes that she isn't wrong about him but she's never had a person who wanted to study with her before, so she can't help but feel drawn to this strange boy. He doesn't seem like the other children – he seems intelligent and strategic in a way that she can associate with, especially as something tells her he doesn't have many friends. _

"_The Chamber of Secrets."_

(*)(*)(*)

She kicks at the wall in anger, blinking furiously to keep the tears in their glands where they belonged but it was an effort in vain.

The old woman doesn't want to waste her tears on this delusional freak, whose eyes are red and face is serpentine. So she isn't crying over him, she's keeping her promise, instead she's weeping for herself and all those who died because of her ignorance.

"I could never have saved you," she whispers, clenching her fists and turning away from his corpse, "but I could have stopped you."

She walks away, secure in the knowledge that he can't hurt her anymore than he already has.

(*)(*)(*)

_She's eleven and already dressed in her brand new robes even though she's just left the station. Leaning back in her seat, her toes just skimming the floor, she pulls out a book from her bag and begins reading. _

_The compartment door slides open and a boy stumbles in, peaky and skinny, his eyes carrying a faint malevolence that she can't decipher at such a young age. _

"_Can I sit here?" he asks, "Everywhere else is full."_

_She nods and he extends a hand, a grin – if she could understand manipulation and sadism, she would surely have run at the sight of that grin – on his face and says:_

"_I'm Tom. Tom Riddle."_

"_Minerva," she replies, "I'm named for the Goddess of Wisdom."_

(*)(*)(*)

"If I was truly wise," she murmurs, "I would have killed you when you first smiled."


End file.
